Chapter 3: Broken Men, Broken Promises

"Now that's revenge. Feels damn good."

In a shabby rented room, Caleb took a long swig of beer and muttered to himself.

The wallpaper peeled at the corners, and the mini fridge buzzed louder than the old box fan by the window. Pizza boxes stacked by the door, reminders of late nights and restless sleep. Caleb’s hand trembled, but there was a glint in his eye—a mix of relief and something darker.

I stroked my wife’s photo, sat in silence for a while, then replied, "Next up, something even more thrilling."

The picture frame was chipped, the photo slightly faded at the edges. I traced her smile with my thumb, promising her—promising myself—that this wasn’t the end. Not yet.

Caleb used to be an engineer—a quiet guy, not much for words, diligent at work, and kind-hearted.

He was the kind of guy who helped you move apartments without expecting pizza or beer, who fixed your broken Wi-Fi router at two in the morning just because you asked. He kept his workspace neat, lined up his tools by size. That order, that predictability—it was all gone now.

Misfortune struck him half a year ago.

His mother was diagnosed with late-stage cancer and died within days, leaving him an orphan.

To make matters worse, Caleb himself was diagnosed with stomach cancer. He was hospitalized and became my roommate.

Our hospital room was boxy and beige, the curtains always half-open, letting in the beep of distant monitors. The nurses wore scrubs with cartoon cats, but their eyes stayed flat, careful not to meet ours.

Treatment drained all his savings. When he hit rock bottom, he decided to leave something behind for the world.

He started documenting his life, obsessively analyzing how he’d gotten stomach cancer: chronic stress, irregular meals, years of takeout, late nights, and so on.

He posted a comparison online between his once-strong physique and his rapid weight loss after falling ill—the contrast was shocking.

His TikTok went from a hundred views to a hundred thousand in a weekend. DMs flooded in—prayers, confessions, hate.

Unexpectedly, his good looks and tragic situation quickly attracted a crowd of followers.

Sympathy poured in, and he gradually went viral, drawing attention from all corners.

He started livestreaming, sharing his daily fight against cancer. The gifts from his fans began to cover his treatment costs.

People sent everything—Venmo, DoorDash credits, even handwritten letters from as far as Minnesota and New Mexico. He’d unbox gifts on camera, smile thinly, thank everyone for their support. It kept him going, in more ways than one.

That’s when his ex-girlfriend got involved.

She accused him online, claiming she’d had an abortion for Caleb and that he’d abandoned her, refusing to take responsibility.

Screenshots flew across Reddit, Twitter, and every dark corner of the web. Her sob story had just enough bite to stick, and soon the comment sections filled up with pitchforks and torches.

Public opinion flipped overnight. Haters swarmed in, cursing Caleb as a scumbag who deserved his illness as karma.

His livestream was shut down, his income cut off. The haters even harassed the hospital.

They called the nurses, left one-star reviews, and even mailed hate letters to the oncology ward. The hospital got spooked—reputation, liability, all that—so they kicked Caleb out to save face.

In the end, I watched as hospital security dragged Caleb out of the ward.

He had nothing but a duffel bag and a half-used bottle of Pepto-Bismol. The nurses wouldn’t even meet his eyes.

One rainy night, Caleb lay by a dumpster, battered and nearly dead.

I carried him home and nursed him back, wanting him to keep some dignity.

My apartment was barely big enough for two cots, but we made it work. I cleaned his wounds, made canned soup, streamed old sitcoms to drown out the silence. For a while, revenge was the only thing that made us feel alive.

It was then that I learned the real story.

That ex-girlfriend who accused him? She broke up with Caleb as soon as she found out he was sick.

As for the abortion, she’d gotten pregnant during their relationship, but went to the hospital and took care of it herself, never telling Caleb.

After Caleb became popular, she tried to extort money from him. When he refused, she set out to ruin him.

All of this was orchestrated by the company’s general manager, Mark Evans.

That’s why Caleb was both my fellow patient and my partner in revenge.

We shared a common enemy: Mark Evans, a puppet master of internet celebrities who thought he could control everything, playing with the fates of countless young women.

Mark Evans was the type who wore Allbirds and a Patagonia vest, always bragging about his Tesla and his "network." Every Monday, he posted a #MondayMotivation selfie with his protein shake. He had connections everywhere—PR firms, local influencers, even a cousin on city council. In his mind, he was untouchable.

Next, we would make Mark Evans pay in blood.